


Ces Éclats

by klytaemnestra (klytae)



Series: Midgar Blues - A Collection of Shinra Noir [1]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25987552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klytae/pseuds/klytaemnestra
Summary: For the first time Rufus is acutely, painfully, and bitterly aware of his place in the world.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Series: Midgar Blues - A Collection of Shinra Noir [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915873
Comments: 15
Kudos: 75





	Ces Éclats

Rufus Shinra spends the latter third of his sixteenth year enrolled at Tellah University, an elite college set along the sprawling hills 20 miles east of Junon. He’s to study engineering, aeronautics, business, and finance as befitting the young heir to the Shinra legacy. His Old Man isn’t there to see him off, no well wishes, instead the task is relegated to the Director of Administrative Research, Veld. Rufus knows him only by the dark suit that he wears, but he seems kinder than the bloodless lot he leads. The Turks. His father’s own personal problem solvers, highly trained professionals with a very specific set of skills, espionage, assassinations, extortion, murder. He’s watched them since he was a child from the shadows of his father’s office, hiding behind garish velvet curtains, envisioning what it might be like to be one those well dressed, dangerous sorts, the elusive seduction of the city beyond the glass walls of this tower where he has been kept.

They exchange few words on the flight, Veld offering little in way of encouragement. But he seems to notice the way Rufus sits there, staring out upon the landscape below in pensive reflection. ‘My father sent me away, too, Sir.’

Rufus spares him a glance as if considering the way Veld makes some small attempt at comforting him. It’s been a long time, indeed, since he’s heard a single word of positive reinforcement from anyone, accustomed to his father reminding him that he is nothing more than a disappointment, a failure.

Rufus watches the helicopter’s controlled ascent as he’s left here with 2 suitcases; the Dean himself walks the Shinra heir to his dorm room. A double. The look on his face is nothing short of disgust when his dorm mate asks if he’d like the top or bottom bunk. 2 days later, Rufus Shinra finds himself in a single room, something usually reserved for Seniors, after the university’s insistence that accommodations could be made to best suit his very specific needs. No one, not even the Dean of the most prestigious university on the Eastern Continent, wants to risk having him call home to daddy. And for the first time Rufus is acutely, painfully, and bitterly aware of his place in the world.

He excels at his studies, though he makes no effort to be particularly exemplary. There’s no one to impress, no accolades to take home to his family, only his own pride and determination drives him. And in the evenings he retreats to the library, old texts that the librarian allows him access to, and he reads about the history of Gaia, the Cetra. Some nights he visits the campus observatory set high atop a hill, and watches the heavens.

There are house parties filled with Midgar’s most privileged where too much alcohol is consumed, debutantes and polo players all vying for his attention, the types who wear their family names like a gilded badge, as they preen and compliment and make a show of their fine breeding and wealth. One night a frat boy with a cardigan slung about his neck claps a hand around his shoulder and makes some quip about his father. It takes 4 people to pull Rufus off him, and when they do, his fists are bloodied. After that, no one talks about his father again. Rufus Shinra for all his wealth and sophistication, is all a bit terrifying.

Classes break for the winter holidays, and this time it is some faceless helicopter pilot come to retrieve him. He suspects the holiday parties are in full swing inside the Shinra tower, his father surrounding himself with pretty, young blondes and setting himself up for yet another workplace scandal, and no Turks available to play chauffeur.

He comes through the front entrance, the weather conditions not permitting a rooftop landing this night. There’s a party in the Shinra ballroom, which means security has been tripled. Those dark suits strategically placed at every exit for surveillance. He swipes his keycard, overnight bag in hand, and takes the elevator to the 69th floor. He has no tolerance for the drunken celebrations his father’s board so adores, and after the flight he longs for a shower. He’s fumbling for his room key, stalking down the hall when he nearly runs headlong into another. Rufus abruptly stops. A boy barely older than he stands before him, with dark hair, and the kind of eyes that for a moment seem to stare directly into his own soul. He’s one of Veld’s, a new recruit judging by his appearance. 

‘Sir. Forgive me, Sir.’ He gives a quick respectful bow as if Rufus isn’t the one who’s nearly run into him.

Rufus studies him for a moment, eyes focusing on the inky mark etched between his eyebrows as if to remember him among the other suits. ‘You really needn’t.’

‘Sir.’

‘I’m not my father.’ He might have smiled, just barely then. ‘I don’t expect my subordinates to bow.’ Rufus notices the way his posture seems to go rigid for a moment, and considers mirthfully that this Turk, this boy who will be a killer, is scared of him because of his name, and thinks then that if he must have others bow to him, he will earn it, their respect, their loyalty, that it will not be in name alone that they follow him.

He stares out across Midgar later that night, fingertips brushing against the glass, and thinks of how one day this will be his, that he will have that nameless recruit and all those like him at his command. It makes him nearly flush at the thought of the power, that they will crush those who oppose him, and hand him all of Gaia on a mythril platter with little more than an order.

Rufus spends the following afternoon wandering the upper levels of the tower as outside gentle snow begins to fall. He stares out one of the expansive windows, breath misting against the glass, and idly begins to draw symbols with his index finger, hieroglyphics of an ancient language in one of the books he’s read during his time away, watches the way they fade into nothingness. He hears his name over the intercom, his father’s personal secretary paging him, and sighs. What did the old bastard need now? He also knows that it’s safer to go than refuse. 

It’s a short walk to the presidential suite where his father stands looking down on his city, as cigar smoke curls about him in a burning stench.

‘What is it?’ Rufus’ words are clipped, and curses himself for letting that slip, a bit out of practice of acting out the unconvincing charade of filial son after months away at school.

‘You’ll watch that tone, boy.’

‘Of course.’ So this is how it’s to be. Home less than 24 hours. He’s not even certain what sets it off this time, but it begins like a spark and powder, his father’s voice suddenly furious. Rufus is too young still to not let this affect him, and he retaliates in kind, words of anger, and disgust between attempts at pleading his case. None dare to interfere in these altercations between father and son. _An insolent brat_ , his father will say to any who question it, as it’s easier to dismiss their contentious relationship as Rufus being a petulant spoiled child. As if at nearly 17 years old, Rufus Shinra does not possess a more clear headed and rational approach than his father. He’s seen the sympathetic looks from his father’s secretary, and the new manager in Urban Development, Tuesti. Even old Mayor Domino gives him a nod of solidarity, as if he too knows what it’s like to be at the mercy of President Shinra’s volatile whims.

When it’s over, Rufus leaves the office head held high in defiance as if daring the old bastard. He’s a few steps down when he sees the form of that rookie Turk again, staring at him with an expression that betrays nothing, holding a cardboard drink carrier full of coffee.

‘If you’ll forgive me, Sir. It’s not my place to pry, but I heard shouting.’

‘No. It’s not.’ Rufus’ voice is more hostile than he’s intended.

To his credit this young Turk seems unfazed by his presence this time, holding out a cup of coffee. ‘Take it.’

Rufus stares at the proffered coffee for a moment before taking the cup in hand. ‘You shouldn’t have heard that.’

The rookie regards him with a look. ‘Someone should make him stop.’

Rufus laughs around the rim of the lid, the coffee near scalding against his tongue. ‘Are you volunteering for the job?’

To this he says nothing, and Rufus finds himself suddenly more than a little intrigued. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name earlier.’

‘Tseng, Sir.’

‘Tseng.’ Rufus repeats the name with perfect uniciation, and finds he likes the way it rolls off his tongue. He has never really asked a Turk their name, knows only Veld’s. The rest are simply a dark blur of expensive suiting and deadly weapons, sleek, elegant, and yet … feral. ‘Is that it?’

‘We Turks prefer to be known by a single name, Sir.’

Rufus smiles then, thinks of his father there behind his desk. ‘Hn, well then, Tseng of the Turks. Have you killed anyone?’

‘Not yet, Sir.’ Tseng looks at him then. ‘And you?’

Rufus considers his name, and the sins it carries. ‘I don’t know.’ And for a moment he thinks he sees the faintest hint of emotion in those dark eyes, as if understanding what it might be like to be Rufus Shinra, beneath the flashy headlines, and interoffice gossip.

There’s another party 3 nights later, his father in high spirits, and deep into his cups. Rufus stands off to the side, sipping a glass of champagne, and observing the carnivale of sycophants. He spots Tseng there near an exit, on security duty this night, and feels his pulse quicken precipitously. His presence has not gone unnoticed, and he wonders how long the rookie has been watching him. He lifts two coupes full of glittering champagne from a passing attendant, and makes his way through the crowd.

Rufus offers Tseng a glass. ‘Repaying the favour.’

‘I’m on the clock, Sir.’ He stands there, gloved hands folded at the small of his back, a discreet earpiece is his right ear, and Rufus knows that beneath that perfectly tailored black suit rests a Shinra issue peacemaker, thinks to how Tseng has said he’s never killed anyone, and wonders for how long.

They meet again a day later, Rufus having retreated to the helipad late at night. It’s cold up here. He’s forgotten his overcoat, fingers numb as the chill cuts through the thin fabric of his wool turtleneck. And for a moment he contemplates the fall.

Tseng announces his presence with a soft cough. ‘Forgive me, there was a presumed disturbance on the helipad. I didn’t--’

Rufus turns then, blonde hair in his eyes as the air suddenly goes still.

‘Sir.’ 

Rufus stands there entirely too close to the ledge. Though if Tseng notices he chooses to say nothing, dark eyes unreadable as ever.

‘You shouldn’t be up here in this weather.’

‘Are you concerned?’

‘You are the President’s son. It is my duty to be, Sir.’ There’s a slight lilt to his accent there that Rufus has not detected before. ‘If you would allow me to escort you back.’

Under any other circumstance, Rufus might have protested, demanding that he be left alone, but there is something about the way that Tseng stands there. And as Tseng walks him back to his rooms, a respectful 3 steps behind, he feels the hair on the back of his neck begin to prickle.

Rufus hesitates in his doorway searching for the right words. ‘Would you join me for a drink?’

‘Sir.’

‘Coffee, I mean. I know you’re on duty.’

He’s terrible at it, too many grounds to water ratio, but Tseng drinks it anyway, and when Rufus looks up from his own steaming cup, the fine porcelain warming his frozen fingertips, he thinks he might see the slightest of smiles on Tseng’s lips.

The New Year comes announced in fireworks and too much champagne, Turks at every corner, exit, alcove. Rufus is to be sent back to Junon in 2 day's time. He seeks out Tseng.

‘Sir.’

‘I shouldn’t be here, I know.’

‘It’s not that--’

He stands there, light eyes surveying their surroundings, considering for a moment how he’ll miss these encounters. ‘And what do you think then, Tseng of the Turks?’

‘I think I’d like to see you before you leave, Sir.’

Rufus turns, eyes meeting Tseng’s, and nods.

The employee lounge is the agreed upon spot. It is discreet, mundane enough to consider this meeting nothing more than happenstance.

Rufus waits for 2 hours, idly typing on his laptop from time to time, looking for any trace of Tseng. And when he doesn’t come, Rufus accepts that he cannot allow himself to be disappointed. He rises, gathers his things, and makes his way to the helipad.

In an abandoned warehouse somewhere in Sector 5, Tseng clutches a gloved hand to his bleeding shoulder and stares at the tangled body 4 stories below.

  
  


_fin_


End file.
